More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (14. Help)

*more whispering*

In spite of my exhaustion last night, I didn’t dare sleep. Instead, I shut my email down (it was flooded with prepositions … propositions), and searched the Internet for a medium or some other person nearby who was versed in the paranormal. It is difficult to find someone legit. The trick is to find someone who doesn’t over-sell their abilities, like …

Marcel deBussy, paranormal psychic

That’s all his Yell ad said. It gave an email, address and phone number. Knowing I was incapable of intelligible communication, I knew I needed to go to his door. Just two blocks away. I could walk it. Right?

That was a mistake. I wanted to be there as early as possible, but not be rude, so I aimed to arrive at 9 am. Unfortunately, that was when the streets were busiest. Just walking down the sidewalk caused two fender-benders, and every person on the street stopped whatever they were doing and stared at me.

What did they see?

A succubus, naked and ready to destroy them with more pleasure than they could imagine.

Even Marcel was taken aback when he opened the door.

I fought for every word, but each word that was under my control was obliterated by my stammer, which had returned with a vengeance.

“I n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-nee-n-n-n-nee … want your soul … nee-n-n-n-need-d-d-d-d h-h-h-h-h-h … I must submityou must help me … h-h-h-h-h-help-p-p-p-p m-m-m-m-m-me.” That was all I was able get out before he took my arm (with predictable convulsive consequences) and dragged me through the door.

“Don’t say anything,” he grimaced when he recovered. That was when he explained what he saw. I was the most beautiful and most deadly creature he could ever conceive of. “It was a mistake for you to walk here.” People were attracted to his house – to me – like zombies.

I sat on his couch while he considered his options, ignoring the knocks on his door. He’d answered it in his pajamas  and I watched the wet spot slowly worked its way down his leg. That probably wasn’t a good idea while his bulge was still throbbing. He shouldn’t have touched me.

Marcel wasn’t what you would normally expect for a psychiatrist … psycho … err, psychic. He was well-groomed, aside from the fact that I had obviously roused him from bed. He had a full head of salt-&-pepper grey hair and overnight stubble. He was tall, towering over me by several inches when I was standing.

“Don’t speak,” he repeated. “Just nod. You need my help.”

I nodded.

“You think you are possessed.”

I shrugged.

“I’m not sure about that, but let’s work in that direction. Your possessor is powerful.”

I nodded.

He scowled. “I need a lock of your hair, and a drop of blood, normal blood.” Often a witch will use menstrual blood, but my period had just ended, so that was out of the question. Touching me was out of the question, so I had to cut the cheese … hair and stick … prick my finger myself. (I almost fainted, since I can’t stand the sight of food … um, blood.) “I’m going to make you a fetish,” he said. “Do you know what that is?”

I nodded. It’s a little trinket that probably would be made from my hair, blood, and whatever he decided to add. It possesses a supernatural power that should mitigate the danger for a while. I waited as he went into a side room to prepare it.

Returning after about a half hour, he chanted something, placing it carefully around my neck. (It smelled vile.) Almost immediately, I could speak. “Is it working?” I asked.

“Partly,” he said. “At least, you look human, and I can see your clothing. If I look at you through a mirror, though, I can see that I’m not really seeing the real you.” He explained that I looked voluptuous and my skin had a red glistening hue. He still wanted to fuck me till he dropped.

Can you believe it? Ezzie Dryar femme fatale, or should I say fatal?

After I explained what had happened, he dressed and walked me home. Inside, the power of the fetish diminished somewhat. He could no longer see my clothes, but I was still a red human who could speak normally … most of the time.

“You smell delicious,” he said after a brief tour of my house. It was a scent that the pong of the fetish couldn’t mask.

“By banishing the gentler spirits, you allowed her to latch on to your soul,” he explained.

“Who is she?” I asked.

“One of your ancestors, a witch, one who invited the succubus into her soul, a soul that it devoured. You said you thought a polygamist lived here, and I think you are right, but he was just a puppet. She controlled him and eventually devoured the others.”

“How did she die?”

“She live in your ancestor’s body for over 100 years before it failed. She could no longer keep the appearance of a seductress. Eventually, she would not be able to shift her form from that of the succubus, so she let go, leaving your ancestor’s spirit tainted.”

“What is her name?” I asked.

“Chastity Ball.”

“I don’t recognize the name. I didn’t know I was related to any Balls, even indirectly.”

“Directly,” he corrected, “or at least that was what the indications from the spirit were.” Then he continued, “I recommend that you not leave the house until the full moon, when we can deal with the problem. It takes incredible willpower to not allow you to enslave me.”

“What does a succubus look like?” I asked, unable to view my own form, or the one that I appeared in earlier.

“It is hard to say. You would look different to anyone who would look at you, and different to them at various times. Imagine that you saw someone you desired – that you would do almost anything to obtain – then imagine someone with an ideal body, and someone sexually well-endowed, that smelled like heaven, so much that they also tasted like heaven – someone you would kill to have, and someone that you would destroy yourself to have. Roll them all into one – you see the various facets of each manifestation as it moves, as you move. It’s form is fluid, and to touch that being would be ecstasy. You have different desires with different moods, and this form changes according to those moods.”

“You implied it was a monster.”

“It is worse than a monster. It is sheer blind desire. I’d advise against talking to anyone, too. Your voice is like the sweetest symphony. It’s hypnotic even now. I should go.”

He didn’t wait for me to acknowledge the statement or even thank him for his help. He just left. My more immediate problem was how I would get off work for a moth … month and not staff … starve. Oddly, my stutter was gone while he was with me, and it is gone when I am thinking of him.

Later in the day, I found a note in my mailbox. “Let me know what you need, and I’ll drop you a care package. Should I phone your employer for you? Don’t try to do it yourself.”

I gave him the phone number of the personnel manager, as well as my email address. I was owed two weeks holiness … holiday, and luckily the two weeks at the end of the month were pieces that didn’t involve me. I was going to play cheater … sleeper … bumper, but a student could do that. I was off the hook, mostly.

“Dear Ezzie, don’t ask me to do anything for you. I would do it. I am your slave. Instead, I will do for you what I think you need (and probably then some). When it comes to you, I am not currently of sound mind right now. Marcel.”

Oops. That was the email I just received from him. I shouldn’t have let him touch me … or see me … or talk to me … or smell me. I’ve ruined him.

I’m Morticia … mortician … err, mortified.

At least my cards obey now.

I. The MAGUS. Craft, occult wisdom, power, skill.

I’ve ruined him.

obey, desire me, submit, I am everything, gifts a thousand-fold …

come back to me tomorrow …

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